


June Mermaid

by tehkittykat



Series: Bedtime Stories [3]
Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Betrayal, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: GFY, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:08:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehkittykat/pseuds/tehkittykat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Clu was going to do it, it had to be done right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	June Mermaid

In the end, Clu went alone to Arjia.

Tron offered to come, deadlier on his own than any dozen of the Black Guard could currently dream of being and still at least marginally welcome in the ISO colonies. Such an escort was a temptation. No question at all that Tron would get him in and _out_ again whatever the reception turned out to be. It almost felt like cheating, borrowing the security program’s strength.

If Clu was _going_ to do it, then it needed done _right_.

So he waited for the rain to come and send everyone scurrying inside and quietly absconded with a lightcycle. No need to worry about anything cropping up in his absence this time—the rain dissolved the bugs and sent most programs seeking the indoors and the company of others rather than the fulfillment of their directives. Bypassing Security was the only problem. The rain always lit a curious madness that sent every last one of them _out_ , whether to the streets or the Outlands or even just the _roof_ to take in the rain, even while supposed to be in down-cycle, even while _injured_ a time or three that Clu had witnessed. To the last bit they were closed-mouthed about what exactly went on when they scattered through the system like that, and chasing the answer was _another_ temptation that almost pulled him off-task. Maybe next time, though the rains were already tracking less frequent compared to prior to the Sea’s poisoning.

_That_ was entirely the problem.

Arjia was as empty as Tron City, the only signs of life the bluish-bright flicker of the occasional security program on the prowl and the sound of music filtering up from several of the communal memory blocks, skirling high and sad against the pattering rain. Without the familiar crush of other programs around as a buffer, their pings and queries buzzing information beneath his shell, the city was eerie and _alien_. Even the underlying _math_ was subtly _off._ Functional, yes, obviously, and even elegant in its own way, but every curve and spire of every building embraced the formulas of _chaos_ in ways that made his processes _crawl_ with the need to impose order—to _perfect_ it according to his User’s ideas. It was the same sort of spiraling, subtle disorder that he glimpsed in Flynn from time to time and made the User so wildly unpredictable. Maybe that was why Flynn loved the ISOs best—they were made according to the same _imperfect_ logic.

Then again, recent events had proven that so was _Clu_. Maybe they _all_ were, infused with traces of _chaos_ at the moment of compilation like a final print from the hands of their Users. _He_ had murdered a vital system resource. Tron had nearly torn out protocols to eliminate the _threat_ he posed. Shaddox had _abandoned_ his administrative post in Engineering to become a bartender, citing philosophical differences that should have had no bearing on his function. _Maybe_ the distinction between ISO and Basic wasn’t as _distinct_ as he—or as _Flynn_ —had believed.

None of it was going to help him find Ophelia.

The most likely place was the communications hub in the heart of the city. The first of the ISOs had a strong connection to the rest of her kind, and with the hub’s power that connection was amplified until she could pull data from _any_ ISO, _anywhere_ in the system. Logical that she would have retreated there in the wake of the virus release in the Sea, and her lack of public appearances since argued that she was there still. Rain or not, it was a place to start.

The hub itself lay in the heart of Arjia, high in the city’s administration building. It was an odd space, part amphitheater for audiences and communal gatherings, part a working office like any other, as if its designer hadn’t been able to make up his mind on its function and thus merged them as best he could. Maybe he had—Clu hadn’t spoken to Jalen since the construction permissions were approved, too relieved at the time to care too much was the ISOs did with their new home as long as they took the bugs out of Tron City with them. It was a maze of lifts and corridors in between the street and the hub, and Clu went on foot trailing rainwater like any other penitent rather than attempt to summon any of Ophelia’s adjuncts for a more direct escort.

Naturally, Giles was blocking the door, his usual glower curling into a sneer and circuits flaring brighter in challenge when he spotted the administrator. Giles was never a _subtle_ program, and his open hatred for any Basic was such that it was no surprise at all when the ISO twitched his hand back toward his disk in silent threat.

“Giles,” Clu said neutrally before Giles could wind himself up much more. “I’m looking for Ophelia.”

“What, no Black Guard with you this time? That’s almost _brave_ of you, Clu. Do you think anyone honestly believed your little speech at the shore? Everyone knows _you_ did it. Maybe instead of waiting for rain like a glitching _coward_ you can come back when there isn’t a pack of security programs outside and get—“

“ _Ophelia_ , Giles. Where is she?” Clu said sharply, cutting off the tirade.

“Ophelia’s _dead_.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Oh yes, she’s dead and _you_ killed her right along with the Sea,” Giles said, almost gleeful as he stalked closer. Clu held his ground, staring at the ISO in what he hoped looked like disdain. Dead? But she had been _right there_ , well away from the water, and Flynn had escorted her back to Arjia personally, leaving _him_ to clean up as always. The ISOs were loyal to their firstborn kin, the Alpha-class, and in Arjia that meant flocking to her as Basics looked to him for guidance. Had an assassin snuck in, not content with the devastation? But _word_ at least should have gotten through to Security, and Tron would have told him.

The glasses Giles habitually affected revealed nothing, casting back Clu’s twisted reflection as he tried to read the other program’s expression. Giles was _also_ circling, and it took every ounce of will to ignore the implicit threat and keep his gaze fixed on the door to the communications hub. Turning to follow was a show of weakness, and _he_ was system administrator.

“Giles. Stop.” The command was short and simple, delivered wearily by a welcome, familiar voice. Clu turned, expecting Ophelia in her usual regalia. Instead, he saw only a white-draped figure, indistinct from the layers of gauzy material and the gentle glow coming from within. Had she been injured?

“You can’t be thinking of letting this _murderer_ walk free in our city?” Giles said, ducking his head in reflexive deference to the newcomer even as he seethed.

“You will know what I think shortly. Go.”

Giles sneered again, shooting a glare Clu’s way before taking himself back toward the lift. The administrator and the mourning ISO watched in silence, waiting for Giles to drop off the process list for the surrounding five levels before turning in silent accord to look at each other.

“I—“

“Come. Take the rain with me,” she said, interrupting and looping her arm with his. Clu blinked at her—she was tall enough that normally he could easily look her in the eye, but the shapeless hooded robe concealed her face and even hid her markings. He couldn’t ping her through the layers of cloth, the lack of data exchange as unnerving as the change in her appearance, the sudden willingness to touch him. Together they proceeded through to the dimly-lit hub to watch the rain leave its subtly-glowing trails on the huge windows overlooking the colony.

For long micros, neither spoke. The sound of the rain filled the space between them, echoes hissing almost like the Sea in the distance.

“Giles was partly right,” the ISO said quietly, “Ophelia is dead.”

“You’re right here,” Clu said, confused, watching her touch the window and trace the glow of the rain. Even her hands were covered. Maybe security programs weren’t the only ones touched by rain madness. He was having _enough_ trouble with his self-imposed errand, and ISO mysticism on top was more than he could quite process. Had they _all_ lost their minds this cycle?

“Am I? I was asked to _lead_ , to guard and guide my people, and even with all the tools the Creator gave me and all of the gifts the Sea granted me, I _failed_. Now there will never be any more of us. The violence is building worse than ever, and I fear it may come to war between us. Not now… but _inevitably_ ,” she said bleakly, “No. I had to bury Ophelia by the shore. Let her dream there forever that someone will come for her and make it all better. _I_ must become someone _else_.”

Even with his perception of her muffled, Clu could almost feel the grief running off the Alpha ISO. He chewed his lip, processes running in frantic little circles as his pre-scripted words hashed into nothing. _Nothing_ was adequate, nothing was going to help. Not even restoring the Sea to a pristine state in the next _picocycle_ would really undo what he had done, _failure_ hitting again as hard as Tron had 22 millicycles before. Apologize? What had he been _calculating_? She would never forgive his role in the Sea’s death, and he couldn’t even _blame_ her for it.

“Clu?”

“Yes?” he said, swallowing, called back out of his thoughts.

“Why _did_ you come?” The faceless gaze had fixed on him, the gloved hand on the window stilled.

“I—“ He could lie. He could make something up, some excuse, and scuttle away with only unconfirmed suspicions following him. Leave and never come back, and let everything continue as it had before.

Instead, Clu sank. Kneeled at the Alpha ISO’s feet, the hand she had placed on his arm captured in both of his as he struggled to find _something_ to tell her that was true and _approaching_ adequate. Her attention was fixed on him, but he was completely without cues with all pings blocked and quiet query completely rebuffed… not even a facial expression to go by.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he said finally, and waited for her to laugh in his face.

The ISO tore the hood off her head, revealing a familiar face gone blank with shock and ink-black hair that had gone _white_. Gloves quickly followed as she used her teeth to pull the glove from her free hand before tugging loose the other and ripping the glove off. She stared at him the entire time, warm brown eyes fixed on his. Clu watched her, felt her presence spread again through the process list, and almost locked as she cupped his face in both hands, tears welling up in her eyes as she presumably found whatever she was looking for.

“Clu. Oh, Clu,” she murmured before she sank to the floor herself and threw her arms around him, sobbing. Tentatively, Clu returned the embrace, taking the safe route of mirroring the gesture even as he floundered, completely unmoored. This… it was even more baffling than Tron’s refusal to derezz him when the antiviral had proven ineffective. The storm of emotion did not pass quickly, a mixture of crushing grief and paradoxical joy pinging erratically through his processes along the low-level connection that the touch opened. Even when her tears dried she _held on_ with surprising determination, as if _she_ was trying to keep  _him_ from leaving.

“I don’t understand,” he said softly.

“I feel you.”

“What do you—“

“I _feel_ you. I always _have_. I couldn’t bear… I hadn’t hoped you’d come _back_ from that terrible dark place you went.”

“I’m not an ISO. That shouldn’t be possible,” Clu said numbly. That was the only data-point that made _sense_ , something to hold on to while the rest of his processes threatened to lock in bewilderment he hadn’t felt since those first moments in the Outlands, alone with his Creator.

“I felt you, and so I came out of the Sea to meet you,” the Alpha ISO said, “It _was_ , it _is_ , so what does it matter that it _should_ be impossible?”

“But I—“

“I _know_. You have always been _there_. Quieter, but there. I knew your jealousy. Your rage at the Creator. Your fear. I couldn’t _not_ know it.”

“Then _why_?”

“I _failed too_. I couldn’t face you, so I let Jalen build Arjia and moved my people out of your sight despite Flynn’s wishes for an integrated system. I thought… I thought space, without our differences contrasted so close, might heal you. And then the fighting started, and I couldn’t stop the retaliation.”

“But you _shouldn’t_ ,” Clu said, more certain of that much, at least. “You said yourself… there won’t be any more of you until I can solve this.”

“And that’s why I forgive you, Clu,” she said, tracing the line of his jaw. “Because I shouldn’t, but you changed anyway.”

“That doesn’t make _any_ sense.”

“You speak as if that ever stops me,” she said, faint flicker of amusement pinging back to him through the touch-contact. She looked more _herself_ finally, almost impish as she poked his nose and slowly pulled away. Clu followed her lead, rising back to his feet and offering her a hand up, which she took with a small, sad smile.

 “What will you do?” he asked.

“What else? _Go forward_.”

The rain was still drumming on the windows. Likely it would continue for the rest of the millicycle. She took his arm again, as if nothing had happened despite the fact that it seemed _everything_ had. Without the heavy gloves, he could feel flashes of her rifling through dictionary entries, searching for words, and wondered briefly what she was picking up from his own idle processes. The thought didn’t bother him nearly as much he suspected it should have. There was a new serenity to the moment, the microcycles spent watching the rain no longer feeling wasted with other tasks so much higher in priority, the humming pulse-beat of the living Grid now a perfectly acceptable substitute for deliberate words.

He had never taken the time to listen to it before.

Always _busy_ , always pushing to perfect some other aspect of the Grid, and then later always running after the bugs and glitches as they spiraled out of control. Always marshalling or managing resources. Always negotiating and explaining and trying desperately to persuade the User to give the system what it really needed—undivided attention. Never pausing, because it was his _charge_ and his _function_. Until Tron had to literally knock him senseless to get him to _stop_ and _listen_. To confront the _results_ of all those cycles of output.

Was _that_ the change the Alpha ISO had sensed? The data that fueled her quixotic insistence on keeping him at her side now, and that informed her offer of forgiveness for what he had done despite the horrifying results? It felt _so_ _small_.

He watched the rain fall, his companion’s head warm on his shoulder, and silently wondered which way was _forward_.

“ _Radia_ ,” she said softly as the rain began to lift, so quietly that Clu almost didn’t catch it, “My name is Radia.”

Clu looked sideways at her half-rueful smile. This time, at least, the words were easy.

“Greetings, Radia.”


End file.
